Wrecked
by PoppyB
Summary: Funny the thoughts that wander into your head when you think you're gonna die.
1. In Transit

Black ice.

Effortless spinning.

Spinning in complete, perfect, sickening circles. Spinning so fast maybe they're not really moving at all. Past the guardrails. Past the edge of the road. Past the edge of the world. Tires spraying up gravel, grass, dirt.

A blur of brown and grey and ghostly white and brown again.

Thinking _shit when's it gonna stop?_

Thinking _who knew black ice really was so fucking black?_

Funny, the thoughts that wander into your head when you think you're gonna die.

Funny ha ha.

And, funny strange.

Family. This is a given. What's funny is that even relatives I dislike intensely are strolling casually through my consciousness right now.

_Hi, Richard._

Friends. Funny, because I don't have many, but the ones I have suddenly seem worth hanging onto.

Food. Hey, if you've never been in my position, don't knock it. A cold beer and a hot steak sound pretty damn appetizing right now.

I mean, I've thought about death many times in my career. Believe me, you can't do the work I do - _we_ do – and not contemplate biting the big one at least a couple times a week. One of the many, uh, _benefits_ of being a cop is getting your last will and testament squared away before you're actually six feet under. I know so many people who keep saying, Yeah, I gotta get that will written up one of these days. Wish I was more organized, like you. And I always tell them, hey, it's not organization that drives me. It's plain, unadulterated terror. It's the fear gnawing the pit of my stomach at 3 a.m. when I think about my kids going to college, getting married, with no Dad and no money.

But, I'm getting off track here. I was talking about my death, which, it appears, is imminent.

I am so fucking cold I feel almost warm, if that makes sense. And it makes sense to me, which scares the shit outta me because if I feel warm, it can't be a good sign.

Not when November river water is seeping into the bottom of your car.

Not when you're pinned in your vehicle and you're pretty sure your arm is broken and maybe your leg, too, and it's pitch-fucking-black and no one knows where the hell you are.

Anyway, I was thinking about my kids. Maureen, in particular. I was thinking about a time, God, so long ago. She was just a little thing, couldn't have been more than five or six. I was putting her to bed and she was saying the things she used to say. The stuff that used to come out of her mouth would blow me away. So fucking smart, that one. We'd finished reading her story and she had her head on my chest. It was very quiet and peaceful.

"I can hear your heart beating, Daddy," she said.

"That's good," I said.

"Why?"

"Means I'm alive."

"What happens if it stops?"

"Oh, it won't…" I said vaguely, hoping she'd drop it.

"But if it _does_," she persisted.

"Uh huh…"

"You die. Right?"

"Uh…"

_"Right_?"

"I suppose," I said.

She'd hugged me then, very tightly, tears in her voice. "I don't want you to die, Daddy. Ever. Okay?"

I'd hugged her back and whispered those nonsensical but reassuring words that parents can whisper to small children and make everything better.

God, I miss those days.

Because then those kids grow up and murmuring, _Don't worry everything will be all right I love you_, just isn't enough anymore.

But, old habits die hard.

Pun intended.

I turn my head infinitesimally to my right, my eyes seeking out the dark figure slumped motionless in the passenger seat.

"Don't worry everything will be all right I love you," I whisper through numb lips.

Then, to myself, because I can't bear to say these words aloud:

I I don't want you to die, Olivia. Ever.

_Okay_?

* * *

He walked into the one-six that morning and there she was, like she'd never left. Just sitting there at her desk, drinking coffee, leafing through papers.

Like she'd never fucking gone anywhere at all.

For a moment he was too stunned to move. He stood immobile in the doorway, watching her all-too familiar and yet somehow foreign movements; the way she crooked her wrist when she picked up her cup, the way she flicked her hair away from her eyes, the way she breathed.

He knew she'd be there, sitting across from him this morning. Cragen had told him about it a week ago. Just to prepare him, he'd said. Well, short of tossing back six Tequila shooters and stumbling into the office shit-faced, nothing could have helped prepare him for the kick in the gut feeling he got just laying eyes on her again.

She looked up then and saw him standing there, watching her. She smiled, but her eyes were guarded. She moved to stand, but stopped halfway when she realized he still hadn't taken a step towards her.

"Hey," she said in her own voice. Olivia's voice. For some reason he'd expected something different, a sound that didn't belong to her, horns honking, tires screeching; but then she spoke and it was just Olivia's voice and, of course, it couldn't be any other way.

"Hey," he replied, jolted from his reverie. "Long time no see." Three quick strides forward and he was at his desk. Safe, familiar, wooden. He dropped his bag, draped his coat over the chair. He gripped the edge of the desk, solid, unmoving, gripped it tightly because he suddenly felt very light-headed.

"You all right?" She was leaning forward, her face a perfect blend of concern and detachment. Elliot closed his eyes and opened them again. She was still there.

"Couldn't be better," he said. "You all caught up?"

She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, nodded tersely. "Think so." She tossed a sheet of paper down on her desk. "Seems Dani got things pretty messed up."

"How d'ya mean?" Defensive.

"The vic. This girl, Alicia. She stopped talking after Dani had a go at her. Hasn't said a word since. To anyone."

"That girl was raped by three men. Think maybe that had something to do with her unwillingness to talk?"

Olivia shrugged. "Still…"

"What?"

"Pretty rough bedside manner. No empathy for the vic's feelings." Patronizing.

"Dani was a damn hard worker." True. "Fit right in." Lie. "Played by the book." Bullshit.

He wasn't sure why he felt this sudden irrational need to defend Dani to Olivia, the desire to make Olivia understand that they, he and Dani, had been a good team, had survived. More than survived. Thrived.

"Not what I heard." Smug.

"You heard wrong." Grasping.

Standoff.

"Olivia, Elliot. Getting reacquainted, I see," Cragen with his impeccable timing stepped in, placed his hand on Olivia's tense shoulder. She smiled tightly up at him.

"Not much to get reaquainted with," she said.

"Well, you'll both have lots of time to catch up on your drive to Hillsboro."

"Where?"

"Hillsboro is a private asylum two hours upstate. It's where our vic's parents have placed their daughter for some serious rehab. If we don't get to her, if we don't get her to talk to us, and soon, our case is finished and three rapists walk."

Elliot and Olivia barely exchanged glances as they gathered their belongings, shrugged on warm coats and gloves.

"Olivia." Cragen nodded her way. "I need you to work your magic here. What I don't need to tell you is how much we need this girl's testimony."

Olivia nodded. She knew. She turned to follow Elliot, who was already walking out.

"Olivia," Cragen said again. She turned, suddenly tired. How was she going to get through the rest of the day?

"Yeah?"

"Welcome back."

* * *

Driving.

Stony silence.

Just maneuvering through the city traffic took a good 45 minutes.

They were both stubborn. They were both used to waiting it out, to letting the perp sweat and stammer and finally give in. But, this silence was different.

This silence was personal.

"You up for this?" he asked after an hour of staring at leaden grey skies and rolling hills and farmland.

"What are you talking about?" Her voice was quiet and cold.

"Are you up for talking to this girl."

"You better not be asking me if I'm capable of doing my job, Elliot."

He shrugged.

"This is my _job_."

"It hasn't exactly been your job for months."

She looked out the window. "Go to hell."

He shrugged again.

"Sure. Gotta be warmer than this."

Stony silence.

Driving.

* * *

The girl wouldn't talk, after all.

Not for any lack of effort on Olivia's part. If Elliot had been on civil terms with his partner, he would have told her, in no uncertain terms, what a great job she'd done, that if she hadn't been able to get her to open up no one could. All that stuff he would have said, before.

After almost three hours the girls' therapist and doctor and parents intervened. No more. Desist. Enough. She needs to rest. She needs to sleep. She needs peace.

So do we, thought Elliot. And we won't get it until those three fuckers are behind bars.

"We're so close," Olivia pleaded, on deaf ears, it appeared. But even she could see this girl was exhausted, damaged, perhaps beyond repair.

So, they got back in their car and they left. Elliot drove without asking because he could see the fatigue in Olivia's face, could see it in the way her shoulders sagged, the way she dragged her feet. She lay her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. Elliot didn't think she was sleeping but she was close enough.

Dark fell early on November evenings in New York state. By 6 p.m. it was full black with only the headlights to guide their way home.

They hadn't spoken since they left the asylum – "Ready to go?" "Yeah. Just let me grab my coat."

Elliot wondered what she was thinking about. He wondered if she hated his guts and if she was sorry she ever came back.

He glanced over at her.

He opened his mouth to ask her.

Black ice.

Effortless spinning.

Spinning in complete, perfect, sickening circles. Spinning so fast maybe they're not really moving at all. Past the guardrails. Past the edge of the road. Past the edge of the world. Tires spraying up gravel, grass, dirt.

A blur of brown and grey and ghostly white and brown again.

Thinking _who knew black ice really was so black?_

Thinking_ Jesus Liv I'm sorry._

* * *

Trees stripped bare of leaves standing straight at attention like sentinels by the roadside. Hurtling forward and gathering speed like some crazy carnival ride but realizing a second too late that this particular ride will not end happily with toothy smiles and giddy laughter and gasps of relief.

This ride will end at with a thud and a jolt at the bottom of a ravine where a river rages and roils, beckoning wayward travelers with icy fingers.

Maybe they grab for each other's hand, blindly, desperately, as the car lurches and nosedives and hurtles down the brown frozen bank.

Maybe they manage to look over at each other for a split second, making eye contact before the car slams into the water, the riverbed, lurching, settling, gathering bone-chilling November water.

Maybe.

But, most likely it is too dark to see anything except what is caught in the frantic sweep of the car's headlights.

Tree trunks.

Underbrush.

A torrent of dark water.

Most likely they are both too terrified to do anything except grip the dashboard, the seats, themselves, for dear life.

They are definitely aware of one another, as they always were and always are. They are thinking of each other, wondering if the other is all right.

Hoping.

Maybe praying.

Please be all right, they think.

Don't die, they think.

Ever.

_Okay?_

* * *

tbc 


	2. Breakdown

So, a rabbi, a priest, and a bishop walk into a bar.

And the bartender says…he says…

Shit.

I can't, for the life of me, remember the rest of this joke.

For the life of me.

Pun intended.

I'm feeling pretty warm now, despite the frigid water lapping at my knees. Even my arm has stopped throbbing. Mostly. Not sure about my leg. I pretty much can't feel anything from the waist down.

I will worry about the implications of that later.

I just wish I could remember the punchline to this fucking joke. I wanna tell it to Liv, but what's the point if I can't get her to laugh a bit? Take her mind off the situation at hand?

What's the point, indeed.

Funny, the thoughts that wander into your head when you're sure you're gonna die.

Funny, ha ha.

A rabbi, a priest, and a bishop walk into a bar.

And the bartender says…he says…

Shit.

It's so _dark_. It never gets this dark in the city.

The car, at least, has stopped moving. We seem to be stuck here, angled nose down, in a small river. I can feel movement, gentle, bobbing. Almost like being in a rowboat. Almost soothing.

You know, under different circumstances.

Water has been seeping in through the doors, slowly, steadily, for a long time, it seems. I can't move my arm to check my watch. I'm sure it's been hours since we crashed.

I'm not cold anymore at least. I'm not exactly comfortable, though. I'm wet. I'm sure something, somewhere in my body, is broken, or at least badly damaged.

I wonder how Olivia is. I'm trying not to think about her to much, but it's hard because she's right there, sort of hunched over and I can't see her face, or much of anything else, for that matter. She hasn't moved since the accident. I can't reach her. Can't touch her to comfort her. I've been talking, on and off, for hours, it seems. Babbling. Telling stories. Reminiscing. I talk to her about my kids. About Kathy. How our marriage slowly fell to pieces no matter how desperately we tried to hang on to it. It just fell apart. No one's fault. Well, Kathy would probably say otherwise. But, I don't blame her. Surprisingly, I don't blame myself, either. I'm done with the guilt-trip. I did the best I could do.

At least, I've convinced myself of that. Which is almost as good as actually believing it. Right?

Which is how I'm handling this situation with Olivia. I've become a bit of an expert at ignoring the obvious. I have somehow convinced myself that she's all right, because thinking otherwise might just finish me off right now.

So, in my reality, she is unconscious, but breathing. Maybe a few broken bones, like me. Hey, we can sign each other's casts. We can compare injuries as we recover in hospital beds. Dry, warm, comfortable hospital beds. Some day, not too far down the road, we'll sit in some bar, drinking beer, laughing about this particular road trip. We'll laugh because we survived it. Just another day, another memory to share.

Fuck, it's dark.

Wait. What's that?

Something is moving. Shuddering. Barely noticeable, but _there_. I try to turn my head. Nope. That hurts too much. I stop. Are we moving? Has the water finally tugged us loose?

I hold my breath, close my eyes.

Something is _shaking_.

Oh.

It's just me.

I breathe out.

"Hey, Liv. Have you heard this one?

* * *

A rabbi, a priest, and a bishop walk into a bar.

And the bartender says…he says…"

Funny, the thoughts that wander into your head when you think you're gonna die.

I could have sworn I felt Olivia touch me. I think I was asleep. That, or passed out, which is possible. But I felt something. Hands cupping my face. Breath, so warm. I thought I was warm until I felt that breath and then I realized how cold I was. Breath on my cheek. A voice, her voice, had to be, so close to my ear. I don't know shit if I don't know the sound of her voice.

Hang on.

Hang on.

Hang on.

Elliot.

_Elliot_.

Don't.

You.

Dare.

Leave.

Me.

She sounded bossy, like she so often does. But underneath the sharp no-nonsense command was an emotion I don't think I've ever heard in her voice before.

Panic.

I tried to nod, tried to reach up to grab the hands on my face, but I'm not sure anything was moving. Not sure the message _Move your fucking hand, Elliot_, was traveling from my brain to the rest of my body.

I tried to respond. I tried to get the voice to understand that I'm not planning on going anywhere.

Staying put, I am.

I would, however, like to get the fuck outta this car at some point.

So, a rabbi, a priest and a bishop walk into a bar.

Richard kissed her. Richard, my own scuzzy, slimy, lying cousin kissed Olivia and did God-knows-what-else with her, in my own house, I might add, at my own damn birthday party.

I've never kissed her. For the record. Because it's good to be a little honest, to set that proverbial record straight, so to speak, when you think you might kick off soon.

God knows I've wanted to. Kiss her. There have been days, weeks, when it's all I've thought about, when it's all that's kept me going.

So, what do I do? I end up fucking my partner. The wrong one.

And now, it's all ruined.

I glance over at that dark figure in the seat next to me. More than anything I want to wrap my arms around her, pull her close to me, feel her heart beating beneath her breasts, her skin, her ribcage.

I want

I want

I want

_Her_.

"I've wrecked it," I say to her. There is a sob buried somewhere underneath these words but I'm in too much pain to let it out. I'm just too damn tired to cry. "I've wrecked everything."

I wonder if she understands.

I wonder if she cares about me, even a little bit.

I wonder if she even fucking hears me.

Funny, the thoughts that wander into your head when you're sure you're gonna die.

Really fucking funny.

* * *

So dark.

Olivia.

_Focus_.

Could have sworn she touched me.

Give just about anything to feel her hands on my face again.

Close my eyes.

Nothingnothingnothing.

Maybe a dream after all.

_Swear to God we get outta this alive I'll kiss you myself whether you want it or not._

She said

Don't.

You.

Dare.

Leave.

Me.

_Never_.

* * *

tbc 


	3. Hell Or High Water

I told him to go to Hell.

It just slipped out so easily and I said it and it was said and I couldn't unsay it. He didn't even flinch – he wouldn't give me the satisfaction right now - but I knew it upset him. Even after all this time apart, I can still read him like my favourite, dog-eared book. His mouth tightened and twisted down on one side, cynically, like he'd been waiting for it. And he shrugged and said something flip and sarcastic and that was that.

I just wasn't expecting this.

I wasn't expecting to feel like I'm back in school and there's a big exam and I didn't do my homework, didn't read the study notes, and the clock is ticking and that sick sweaty feeling is flooding me and I just know I'm going to fail. Without a doubt I know anything I say or write or think will be gibberish, garbage, bullshit.

I wasn't expecting to be thrown back into it so completely after being away, stuck in such close quarters with him for hours with so much to say and no room to say it.

I wasn't expecting the kick-in-the-gut reaction to his questioning my ability to work. Goddammit I hate it when he does that.

I wasn't expecting the liquid fire burning my belly and chest and head when I saw him again, in the flesh.

I wasn't expecting to be trapped in a car at the bottom of a ravine with him, water up to my knees, checking his pulse, rubbing his face, wondering if he's dead.

Begging him to _not die_.

* * *

There is a car in the river.

Do you see it? Right there, sort of stuck at the edge of the water, precarious, tangled in underbrush. It looks kind of mangled on the one side, the driver's side, for sure.

It takes him a couple of minutes to realize he is above the scene, looking down. He's not sure if he's floating or flying, but it's easy and comfortable and pretty damn cool, really. He doesn't bother to ask the question _why_.

The car looks strangely familiar and he wonders idly if it belongs to someone he knows. He wonders if he should be more concerned about the people who are possibly trapped inside. He wonders about their family and friends.

He thinks about black ice and white trees and spinning very fast, but he's not sure why.

He thinks _whoever's in there has gotta be hurt_.

He thinks _whoever's in there might be dead_.

He wonders if anyone's called the police.

* * *

I wasn't expecting it to happen so fast.

It all happened so _fast_. The accident, I mean. One second we were driving along not looking at each other and not talking to each other and then we were in the bottom of a ravine. Just like that. I remember spinning, being pushed to side of the car, wondering if I'd actually go flying out the door from the momentum. I remember grabbing for something, anything, to keep myself from flying. I didn't want to fly.

I remember thinking about Elliot. After all we'd been through, after all these years together, all the near misses, the close calls, all the _bullshit_ we'd put up with from each other, and this, this is how it was all going to play out. And in that split second it almost seemed rather fitting. Not the dying at work.

The dying together.

And I felt peaceful about it, because if I was going to die, there was no one else in the world I'd want with me when the car hit bottom. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

I just wish I'd grabbed _him_, his hand, when we were falling. I needed very badly to touch him then.

I just wish I hadn't told him to go to hell.

I just wish I'd died, because right now it looks like Elliot's not going to make it and if he doesn't there's a cold, dark river waiting to take me, too.

I wish he'd wake _up_.

He's been unconscious since we crashed and I've got a pulse, but not much else. He hasn't stirred, moaned, fluttered, groaned for…I check my watch…it's been six minutes.

We've been down here for six minutes.

It feels like eternity.

I can't get my door open. My back hurts. The radio's dead.

It feels like a lifetime being washed away by a nameless, angry river.

I don't know what else to do at this point. He's not moving. He hasn't fucking _moved_ at all. But, there's a pulse. I can feel it, fluttering under my finger, tentative, fragile, birdlike, but there. His skin is cold. I lean over and cup his cold, cold face with my hands, ignoring the stabbing pain in my back.

I am trying not to cry. I am trying not to panic.

I am not succeeding.

Hang on.

Hang on.

Hang _on_.

Elliot.

_Elliot_.

Don't.

You.

Dare.

Leave.

Me.

He doesn't even flinch.

* * *

The view from up here is nothing short of amazing. It's not dark at all, up here. He can see everything now; the crazy path the car followed from the road, down the embankment, to the water's edge. He can hear everything now, too. It was so quiet before, but for the sound of water. Now he can hear night noises. He watches a man approach the car. He appears to talk to someone inside.

Good, he thinks. Help is coming.

Now everything will be all right.

* * *

Someone is knocking on my window. It's a sudden, startling sound.

With some effort I turn my gaze away from Elliot and see a face, pressed to the glass. Frantic, questioning eyes. A stranger's face full of concern for strangers trapped inside.

"You OK?" he yells. Vapour billows from his mouth, obscures his face.

I shake my head. The movement makes my back flare sharp and red.

"My partner…he hasn't…he…I don't know how he is." I feel like I'm talking very, very quietly, but this stranger standing outside my car window has managed to understand.

"Just the two of you?"

I nod. It seems easier, right now, than trying to form thoughts and translate those thought into words. My lips are numb. I'm so cold. I'm so tired.

"Hang on, OK? There's an ambulance on its way."

When I don't respond, he raps on the glass again. I wish he'd stop doing that. It's so loud.

"Everything's going to be all right," he says. He even manages a tight smile. I suppose he's trying to appear comforting.

I nod again. I want to ask him how he knows this, because I really, really want to believe it.

* * *

It takes them awhile to get us out. They get me first, because I'm more mobile, and I'm conscious.

I'm alive.

I'm aware of the cold night air on my cheeks and the searing pain in my back and the white pinpoints of stars spread out in the sky over me. You never see stars like this in the city.

"Elliot?" I hear my voice, quiet and tentative in the cold air. I don't know why I say it, but it comforts me to have his name pass between my lips.

"Hang on. We're going to move you up the hill," Someone says above me. "What's your name, hon?"

"Olivia."

"OK, Olivia. How you doing, there?"

"Been better," I say. The Someone chuckles.

"I don't doubt it."

"Elliot?" I say again.

"That your husband?"

I shake my head, but no one sees it. "He all right?" I say.

No one answers.

"I'm sorry," I say then, because I can't think of anything else to say, as I'm carried up an embankment on a gurney on a cold November night. "I'm sorry, Elliot. I've wrecked everything."

"Did you say something?" Someone asks.

* * *

It's pleasant to be warm again, he thinks. He was so cold for so long and now he's warm. Watching the scene unfold below him is interesting, too, in a detached and yet almost familiar sort of way. He's wondering what will happen next.

Cars on the road. He can see the lights of an ambulance, a firetruck, police cars. So many lights and different colours slicing through the blackness of night.

It's not dark at all now.

There is a lot of talk and excitement about the car in the river. Firefighters hurry down to work on the driver's crumpled door. Four attendants follow with gurneys.

"Easy, easy!"

"How many?"

"Two, I think. But one's unconscious."

"The woman is conscious. Says the guy hasn't moved since they went down."

He watches everyone work frantically yet efficiently around the car. He thinks becoming a firefighter would have been a satisfying career choice.

The ambulance attendants are easing the first gurney up the slope, slowly, carefully. It's a woman, the passenger.

She looks familiar, he thinks. He feels a sense of panic for the first time. Suddenly, being this far removed from the scene is not a good thing.

He wills himself to move closer.

_Olivia_?

What the hell is she doing here?

He struggles to move even closer, to see better. He has to make sure it's her, even though he already knows it's her.

OK. What the fuck is going on here?

The second gurney follows close behind. A man, this time. The driver.

Wait a minute. Who _is_ that?

Focus.

Oh.

It's me.

What is this, some kind of fucking joke?

* * *

tbc 


	4. Signs Of Life

So, a rabbi, a priest, and a bishop walk into a bar.

And the bartender says, he says,

_What is this, some kind of fucking joke?_

Ha.

I knew I'd remember it, eventually.

* * *

Once upon a time I was a man who looked forward to going home every night to his family. My wife and my kids. I was a man who could leave his job behind at the end of the day and enjoy, truly enjoy, being with the people I loved, the people who loved me.

Once upon a time my partner was someone I worked with. I went to work, worked with her, then went home. Home is where my family was, as I mentioned already.

It was once all very simple, laughably simple. I remember lying in bed talking to Kathy about this partner I'd been stuck with, this young, idealistic, passionate woman. I'd made a bet with Kathy that I'd have a new partner, again, within the month. I bet her a full-body massage, complete with that floral-scented oil that made me sick to my stomach, and a dinner out.

She chose Italian. We shared a bottle of wine, went home and made love, twice. I could smell that oil in the bed for weeks afterwards.

Those were the days before I used to think about Olivia when I had sex with my wife, when I didn't have to worry about yelling out the wrong name.

I remember a time when I didn't think about what Olivia was doing when she wasn't with me. It's a struggle, but I can do it.

I _can_.

I remember not wondering if she was safe, if she'd remembered to double bolt her apartment door, that she wasn't inviting her latest date up without knowing enough about him.

I remember not caring that she was on yet another date.

She used to tell me funny stories while we were killing time waiting for some perp, drinking our coffee, our cold fingers hugging the paper cups for warmth. She'd tell me about Michael or Greg or Andrew and the stupid things they'd said or done. I would laugh and tell her I'd take her out if, you know, things were different. I'd show her how a woman should really be treated. She'd laugh and say she'd already been to every greasy spoon in the city, thank-you very much.

We used to joke around like that a lot.

Once upon a time.

* * *

The inside of an ambulance is not my preferred place to hang out, if I'm being honest. Especially when I'm strapped to a stretcher, unable to move my neck. When I don't know where my partner is. Or how he is.

I keep asking about him, but I don't think I'm being heard. Where's Elliot? I say. Is he all right?

Or maybe I'm just thinking these things, in my head. It's possible, after everything we've been through.

It feels like days, years, since we left the asylum in Hillsboro, not hours.

He _could_ still be alive.

He could be.

He _must_ be, because I'd know if he wasn't. Right?

These are the arguments I have with myself as I lie on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance in the middle of nowhere.

"What's your friend's name again?" Someone asks from far away.

My friend. I have to remember to tell my _friend_ that one when I see him again.

"Elliot," I say, with some difficulty. My mouth is numb. It's an effort to make the sound, but once I start I don't seem to be able to stop, and my lips are like floodgates I can't close. "Elliotelliotelliotelliotelliot-"

"OK, it's all right, hang on –" Someone says. This is the second person to tell me to hang on tonight. I just wish they'd give me something to hang on to.

Instead Someone gives me a shot of something and none of it really matters much anymore, anyway.

* * *

I wonder if anyone would bother to call Kathy and the kids and tell them I fell into a river tonight. I mean, someone would call them, eventually. She's still my wife. They're still my kids.

I think about the divorce papers, sitting on my bedside table, waiting for my signature. I think about the bottle of beer, half finished, sitting on top of those papers.

Funny the things that wander into your head when you think you're gonna die.

Except, maybe I'm not gonna die, after all.

There I am, on a stretcher, heading up a steep, dark hill towards the waiting ambulance. I appear to be in good hands. The attendants are efficient, quick, reliable. They seem optimistic about me, my chances.

Except, I wonder how optimistic they can be, how _realistic_, if my body is down there and the rest of me is up here.

There comes a time when a man has to make his choice.

This is mine.

I can choose to stay away, removed, separate from what's going on down there. I'm getting used to this feeling of warmth and comfort. The thought of returning to that broken and frozen body is not a happy one. I'm not sure what happens next, if I choose to stay up here. My Catholic upbringing makes it all clear, but now that I'm here, living it, so to speak, I wonder if any religion organized and run by humans could ever truly capture this feeling.

This feeling of flying. Of freedom.

But there's this problem, see?

The problem is down there. The problem is the woman, this woman I work with is being slid into the back of an ambulance and I don't have a fucking clue how she is. All I know's she's not up here with me. If she was, I don't think my choice would be nearly as damn hard.

Not nearly.

So, my choice, as I see it, is this: I say goodbye, continue on my way, or go back. Go back to being Elliot Stabler, nearly divorced father of four pining after his partner like a sad, lovesick schoolboy.

There is a sound. The sound of ambulance doors slamming shut. They sound very loud in the cold night air. It's the loudest sound I've ever heard.

The choice is suddenly crystal clear.

* * *

She is in the hospital for two days, healing.

She has whiplash. A sprained arm. Otherwise she is fine. She is lucky.

She thinks if one more person tells her how lucky she is she will scream.

She'd fit right in here.

What she remembers most about the hospital is the noise. It's such a noisy place, never silent. Clicking and hissing and squeaking and talking. The nurses are forever yakking about one thing or another. They simply won't shut up. The other patients moan and groan, usually in the middle of the night, up and down the hallway.

She wonders if one of the moaners is Elliot.

They come to visit her, of course, Cragen and Fin and Munch and Casey. They all come and they all look worried and concerned and relieved until she can read each forehead furrow and mouth purse like a pro. She wishes someone would crack a joke, make her laugh.

She asks about him, of course, and no one tells her very much.

They say he's alive, but barely.

Barely.

Whatever that means.

He's in a coma? Olivia asks.

Not quite, says Cragen.

How can you be not quite in a coma? Olivia wonders. She doesn't ask.

It's…tenuous, Cragen says rather helplessly. Since tenuous is not a word Cragen would ever use, Olivia assumes, rightly, he has heard it from a doctor

Tenuous. Touch and go.

He's hanging on, says Casey.

To what? Olivia says, but no one laughs. They look at her with their furrowed brows and pursed mouths. They are concerned about her state of mind. What's wrong with him? She tries again, and they seem to like that question better.

Hypothermia, says Cragen. Shock. Broken femur. Head trauma. He recites it like a shopping list. Kathy's been here a lot, and the kids. And –

He stops. No one looks at anyone else, which is tricky in a small room filled with five people.

Who? Says Olivia.

Cragen clears his throat

Father Sheen. Their priest.

Oh, says Olivia. I see.

She closes her eyes.

* * *

And on the third day they spring me. I am set free. I am discharged and told I can go home, get lots of rest, take time off work.

Heal.

Ha.

The getting lots of rest and healing part is fine with me. Just fine.

It's the going home part I'm having trouble with.

I stop by his room, just to have a look. He's in intensive care, hooked up to a lot of machines and wires and tubes. He's covered in a sheet as white as the rest of him. There's not a mark on his face. From where I stand, it's hard to believe he was in an accident at all.

The same accident as me.

I watch for awhile. I watch his chest rise and fall. I watch his face, which looks almost peaceful from where I stand. I watch the machines and medicine do their jobs.

I watch him open his eyes and look over at me.

* * *

The last thing and the next thing I remember is Olivia.

I open my eyes and she's there, watching me through glass, like I'm on display. I take in my surroundings. It takes me a minute to realize where I am.

I am not in the car.

I am not in the fucking river, thank God.

I am not in the sky.

I am not dead.

Olivia watches me watching her. She makes no move to come into the room. I suppose she's not allowed, if I'm in ICU, which is where I appear to be. She gives me a very small smile, raises her left arm and wiggles her fingers.

_Hello_.

Hello, I mouthe, but I doubt she can see it. I close my eyes, wondering if I'm already dreaming.

* * *

"How's he doing?" Olivia joins Kathy at the window. They don't look at one another and they don't let their shoulders touch. This daily meeting has become routine, familiar, but never comfortable.

"Better," Kathy says. "Alert for longer periods. Coherent."

"Good," says Olivia.

The two women watch the man, each acutely aware of her position, or non-position, in his life.

"He asked for you," Kathy says. She sounds like a nurse. Olivia tries to not look pleased. Looking pleased would not do.

"Oh?" she tries to keep her voice neutral.

"Well, he asked _about_ you," Kathy amends, sounding a tiny bit smug. "I think he wanted to know how you were. Medically."

Olivia nods, suddenly disliking this woman standing next to her intensely.

"He doesn't remember anything, you know," Kathy says quietly. "It's like the accident never happened."

Olivia processes this piece of information, turning it over and over in her head. It feels like a shard of glass. It hurts, the knowing.

"When can I visit him?"

"Tomorrow," Kathy says. She sighs, reluctant. "The doctor said you could see him tomorrow."

* * *

She doesn't sleep the night before tomorrow. She can't stop thinking about tomorrow. She is nervous, sick to her stomach. Her neck hurts, more than usual.

It's been two weeks.

Elliot, they say, is On the Mend.

He's Out of the Woods.

She approaches his bed slowly, cautiously, as if he were a bomb, ready to go off. He may be sleeping. He may just be resting. Most of the machines, the tubes, are gone now. It's just him. And her.

He opens his eyes.

"Hey," she says, suddenly relieved. It is him, after all, blue eyes and all. Her knees buckle and she sits down hard on the Visitor Chair. She can't take her eyes off him.

What do we talk about now? She wonders.

"You okay?" he says. His voice is raspy with unuse. She nods.

"You?"

"Hanging on," he says and this makes her giggle. He watches her, amused, as she tries to gain control of herself. Eventually the giggles subside and she rubs her fingers over her eyes. She's so tired.

"I told Kathy I don't remember the accident, but I do," he says. "I do remember some of it, but I don't want to tell her. I don't want to tell the doctors. I don't think I even want to tell you."

"Elliot –"

"I do remember you, slumped against the door. I remember you not moving. I remember how cold and wet and dark it was down there in the car. I thought -- "

Olivia watches him, lets him talk, even though she can see it's hurting him to say so much.

He stops. Olivia holds her breath. He doesn't continue. His hands are curled into tight balls by his sides. She places her hand over one of his. He startles.

"Elliot," she begins, choosing her words carefully. "You weren't conscious. At all. The entire time we were…there, trapped. You were the one…you were…" she falters when she feels her throat tighten dangerously. She doesn't want to cry right now, because she may not stop. "Elliot, I thought you were dead."

He uncurls his hand, turns it over, laces his fingers through hers, squeezes tightly. She welcomes the pressure because it pushes her tears back.

"You touched me," is all he says. "I remember that. You touched my face."

She swipes at her eyes with her sleeve, nods. "I did. I did that."

"I remember," he says again.

When it's time for her to go she stands, smiles tentatively, and he remembers something else. He mouthes something and she frowns. She leans down close to hear better. He circles her wrist with his hand, pulls her even closer, lets his lips brush against hers. She doesn't protest, doesn't pull back.

"I said, next time you drive."

* * *

She comes to see me late one night, after visiting hours are over and Kathy has gone home. Her home, not ours.

I'm not sure how she has sneaked in, but I don't ask. I don't care. She's here.

"You look good," I say.

"You don't," she says back, then smiles.

She sits down on the chair next to the bed, kind of perching on the edge like she just may take flight if startled.

I think about the joke, the set-up, the punchline. I think very hard and I make sure I have it all straight and ready in my head because I really don't want to screw this up.

"Hey, Liv," I say. She looks at me with wide clear eyes that almost make me forget what comes next.

"Yeah?"

"You heard this one?"

* * *


End file.
